Brasch watched Gelder stiffen noticeably as he caught sight of the official party that stood in the far corner of the room. Three NKVD generals and a handful of SS officers were gathered around the diminutive figure of Reichsfuhrer Heinrich Himmler. Even Brasch tightened up somewhat. Before the Emergence, Himmler had been an almost mythical figure. With the terrible purges of the last few months, that aura had grown even more powerful. Indeed, he was the fuhrer's most frightening weapon: a one-man Vergeltungswaffe, protecting Hitler from those thousands of enemies who had been unmasked through information contained within the files of the future-ships.
Since June, it had seemed as though every night was given over to the Long Knives, as the SS raked at the heart of the Third Reich to see what treachery might be hidden there. For a while, Brasch had even stopped worrying about his son. Having been born with a cleft palate, little Manny was almost certain to go into a camp. But Himmler's minions were so busy purging the State of traitors such as Rommel and Canaris that for just a few weeks it seemed as though the pressure was eased on less significant "undesirables." Nearly a month had gone by without Gelder inquiring as to Manny's health.
But then, a fortnight ago, he had brought it up again. Brasch had responded noncommittally, knowing that the SS was, for the moment, content to simply remind him of his vulnerability. But that night he had not slept, as he was tormented by waking visions of his son choking to death on Zyklon B.
Seeing Himmler now, he was tempted by a rush of madness to draw his Luger and kill the man. Of course, that would condemn his entire family. So he forced himself to assume a neutral expression, the face of the perfect functionary. But while he threaded through the banks of control panels to join the delegation of high-ranking officers, a small part of his mind worked furiously, as it had been ever since he'd read about the Holocaust in the Fleetnet archive on the Sutanto.
It had been a long, unpleasant trip for the Reichsfuhrer, clanking through Poland and into the Ukraine. The rail line carried them only as far as Sobibor before they had to transfer to an armored convoy. The cease-fire was holding, but the war had ravaged this part of the world, and bandits were everywhere. Plus, one could not be entirely certain of the Wehrmacht nowadays. Two outright mutinies had already been put down, and Heinrich Himmler was certain that they were acute eruptions of a deeper, chronic malaise. Treachery was everywhere.
His current duplicity was of no consequence. The Bolsheviks were not comrades. The arrangements with them were a fleeting matter, to be put aside after the Reich had dealt with the disruptions caused by this accursed Emergence. Unlike the Nipponese, Germany had not suffered directly from the appearance of the Wunderwaffen in the Pacific, but the implications of their arrival-well, that was entirely different. The revelations they had occasioned necessitated the boldest of gambits and the most ruthless winnowing out of criminal elements within the state.
An image of Field Marshal Witzleben thrashing about like a dumb beast on a meat hook arose unbidden before the Reichsfuhrer's eyes. The former commander of Army West was one of more than twenty thousand conspirators who had been dispatched, but he was one of the few whose demise Himmler had personally observed. It was necessary work, but quite upsetting, and he had left the scene of the execution shaking and white.
He had authorized two weeks' leave for all members of the Einsatzgruppen who were personally involved in the countersubversion operations. Unfortunately, the pace of their work was such that nobody had managed to take as much as one hour's break since their vital mission began with the translation of the so-called Web files.
A PA system announced the ten-minute countdown in both German and Russian.
Himmler noticed the arrival of Brasch and his SS chaperone. While many had been sucked down in the recent turbulence, others had flourished, and Brasch was one of them. The fuhrer had personally promoted him to the rank of Oberst, thanking the engineer for his work in the Orient. Himmler, however, wasn't so sure of the man. The murder of Steckel remained unsolved and unsettling, but then Brasch could hardly be blamed for that. He'd been hundreds of miles away in Hashirajima when the intelligence officer was killed. And as a lieutenant in the Ausland-SD, Steckel had doubtless accumulated many foes. That circle of perverts from the Foreign Ministry were much more likely to have been responsible.
Still, Brasch had enjoyed unrestricted access to the historical documents for many weeks. It gave one pause to imagine how he might have been affected by them.
"Reichsfuhrer!" Both men snapped out perfect salutes.
Himmler nodded at their arrival and flicked back a restrained salute. The NKVD generals remained impassive. The junior officers shuffled around to allow them to join the circle.
Himmler put his doubts about Brasch to one side. The man had been more than effective in carrying out the special tasks they had assigned him here, and Gelder, one of Himmler's better lieutenants, had found nothing ill to report of him, as yet.
The Demidenko operation was proceeding in excellent order.
"I am hopeful that your test will prove to be successful, Herr Oberst," said Himmler.
Brasch, to his credit, did not blanch at being directly addressed by the head of the SS. Nor did he dissemble. "We all hope for success, sir. But as I'm sure you know, I cannot guarantee it. The rockets and technical data we took off the Sutanto and her sister ship in New Guinea have been most helpful. The computers are like magic boxes. Even so, I don't anticipate a perfect trial. But we shall see."
Silence fell over the group, and the Germans waited on Himmler's response. When he acknowledged Brasch's short speech with a curt nod, they all relaxed slightly. The Soviets did not.
"We are more than hopeful of success, Colonel Brasch," said Orlov, the senior Russian general, in his heavily accented German. "Much effort has been poured into this project. We are not a rich country, and every kopeck spent here is lost to the reconstruction and repair necessitated by the aggression of your own."
"That is your problem, General." Brasch shrugged.
The Bolshevik flared at the insult, and Himmler found himself in the unfamiliar role of peacemaker. "Orlov, this project is a concrete symbol of our cooperation against the common enemy. We do not need to rake over scorched earth. Colonel Brasch, you will apologize."
"Of course," said Brasch with easy equanimity. "I am sorry, Herr General. In the drive to complete our work, I forget myself."
The PA announced, "Launch minus five."
The Soviets seemed mollified, and Brasch remained completely unruffled. Himmler found himself privately amused at the engineer's cheek. Nobody was happy with this new rapprochement, but needs must out when the devil drives. And the fuhrer's plans were most definitely being driven by the devilish complications of the Emergence.
Himmler polished the lens of the specially tinted goggles they'd given him and turned to the foot-thick blast window. The striking sight of the prototype V-2 rocket, poised on its launchpad, was heavily distorted through the armored glass, but he preferred to watch the test as it happened rather than on the even fuzzier televiewing screen in the control room.
In truth, Brasch knew what would happen long before it transpired. The missile stood forty-eight feet high and measured five and a half feet in diameter. It weighed thirteen tons, most of which was liquid alcohol and liquid oxygen, to provide thrust to the 600,000-horsepower rocket engine. It was designed to carry a ton of high explosives, but did not do so for today's test. Theoretically it could reach a speed of 3,500 miles per hour, with a ceiling of 116 miles. Unlike the aborted V-1, a fast fighter could not intercept it.